Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

“Here, help me lift this.”

Casey takes one side and we pull the cabinet away from the wall, exposing a trapdoor with a rope handle. On my knees, I pull it open, levering it backwards on stiff hinges. The room below is a dark pit.

“Lend me your torch.”

Crouching over the hole, I direct the beam. Dust motes reflect in the light as the dungeon is revealed piece by piece, like a jigsaw created in hell. Two bunks. A table. Chairs. Shelves. A sink. Magazines. A saucepan. A bedpan. Thin gray blankets. Scattered clothes.

The ladder only reaches halfway to the ceiling. The lone window is high on the wall above the sink. Sealed. It doesn’t seem big enough for a person to squeeze through.

The torch beam continues moving. I notice a poster of Brighton Pier and a collage, made of cut-up pictures torn from magazines. Cans of food are stacked on the shelves. A jar of teabags is resting near the gas ring burner.

When I’m sure the basement is empty, I pull away, desperate to be outside, to be away from here.

The rain has started up again and I don’t have an umbrella. I walk away from the buildings, climb the embankment and look down from the top of the quarry. Standing there, with my head bowed, arms hanging, I let the rain run over my scalp and into my eyebrows and down my face. I have never adored nature. I can appreciate its beauty, but I’m indifferent to its vagaries. Nature can do some appalling things, but it always endures and remains unmoved by human suffering.

Below me, men and women in blue overalls are moving into the compound, following a path cut through the brambles. They’re looking for blood, ballistics, fingerprints and body fluids-the remnants of death, the signs of life.

Piper was here. She ran from him, but he tracked her down. What will he do now? Unless this man has developed a special bond with Piper, unless she’s become indispensable to his fantasies, she will be expendable, another loose end to be tied up.

Gazing into the sky, I search forlornly for a star through the thick cloud cover. Two thousand years ago, according to the Bible, three wise men followed a star and found a savior lying in a manger. I don’t believe in miracles, but Piper Hadley needs one tonight.

The headlights were blinding me at first.

It was only when the driver’s door opened and he moved forward into the light that I knew he had found me. I lost control. The wetness ran down my legs and filled my shoes.

I couldn’t run. I couldn’t cry out. I had nothing left. He took my hand and led me to the car. He put tape around my hands and feet and made me swallow two small white pills.

Gentle as a lamb, I let him lift me into the boot. He put tape on my mouth and pulled a sack over my head. I coughed into the dust, struggling to breathe. Then I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

I have a vague recollection of the car stopping and George talking to someone, but then the car was moving again and I slept, not expecting to wake up.

And now I’m here, lying in a lovely bed, wearing clean pajamas. It’s the same attic room that Tash and I first came to after he took us. The furniture hasn’t changed, but he doesn’t have the black and white TV any more. Maybe he threw it away.

I don’t remember how he got me up the stairs. And I haven’t moved since I woke up. Exhaustion keeps me pressed to these white sheets like an insect pinned to a piece of cardboard. I once visited the Natural History Museum in London on a school excursion. We were taken to the Entomology Department where there were 140,000 wooden drawers with 28 million specimens. I didn’t know there were that many different insects in the world. I don’t like bugs, but I don’t squash them anymore.

I’m so tired. I just want to sleep. George can do what he likes. I don’t care anymore.

Sometime later, I wake with the memory of having screamed, but the sound has dissipated and the room is full of dark shadows.

“Is anyone there?” I ask.

There’s no answer.

“Talk to me, please.”

“What would you like me to say?” asks George.

He is sitting on a chair between the wardrobe and the window, leaning back against the wall. I can’t see his face.

“What was your nightmare about?”

“I didn’t have a nightmare.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Dreams are funny like that,” he says. “I don’t remember mine.”

“Am I a long way from home?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean in miles. Is it a long way?”

“No.”

“Could I make it if I walked all day?”

“Perhaps.”

“Are you just saying that to make me happy?”

“Yes.”

It is past midnight on Christmas morning and the only creatures stirring are being nourished by machine coffee and the chocolate bars with raisins that nobody likes. Every available officer has been recalled. Leave cancelled. Festivities put on hold.

The roadblocks have been maintained throughout the night and plans are being prepared for a major ground search at first light using volunteers, dogs, helicopters and heat-sensing radar.

On a whiteboard in the incident room, somebody has written, “Piper Hadley is coming home.” Yesterday’s message. Premature. Out of date. Nobody has the energy to scrub it off.

Drury moves down the corridor as though walking in his sleep. At the coffee machine he presses a button and listens to the machine give an emphysemic cough and hack, spitting out coffee that looks like tar.

He takes a sealed evidence bag from his pocket and studies the tiny manikin of the stationmaster.

“Are you sure it belongs to Martinez?”

“Yes.”

He runs his thumb over the model piece.

“It’s not much of a smoking gun.”

“If you wait for fingerprints or DNA, it could take days. Piper doesn’t have that long.”

The DCI’s face twists. “We’ve issued an arrest warrant for Martinez and circulated details of his vehicle.”

“What about going public?”

“He could have Emily and Piper. It’s too big a risk.”

Drury sips the coffee and almost spits it out. He pours the dregs into the sink, crushing the plastic cup in his fist.

“Are you sleeping with Victoria Naparstek?” he asks.

“What?”

“You heard the question.”

“I don’t think that’s any-”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He rocks back on his heels, flexing his fingers against his thighs. “I think you should leave her alone.”

“Why?”

“I’m concerned for her.”

“You care for her?”

“Yes.”

“Does your wife know?”

He smiles tightly. No teeth. “My wife and I have an understanding. I know it sounds like a cliche.”

“You have an open marriage?”

“If you want to call it that.”

“Does your wife see other men?”

“She could.”

As soon as he utters the statement, he’s aware of how self-absorbed and insincere it sounds. Elevating his chin, he presses his lips into thin lines.

“Are you married?” he asks.

“My wife and I are separated.”

“I notice that you still wear a wedding ring. I guess that makes us both hypocrites, but only one of us is a showboat.”

He leaves me then, striding down the corridor like a soldier marching into battle. How can a man with so much ego and self-hatred survive in a job with so few highs and so many lows? I fear for his sanity. I feel for his wife.

Ruiz wakes me just after 4:00 a.m. I’ve fallen asleep on a desk, head resting on my forearms, dribble on the blotter beneath my chin. I sit up, dry-mouthed, thirsty.

“You don’t twitch when you sleep,” he says. “It’s like your Parkinson’s takes the night off.”